


Office Hours

by SuedeScripture



Series: Short Trek Vignettes [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Starfleet Academy, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-07-23 15:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16161368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuedeScripture/pseuds/SuedeScripture
Summary: A short vignette into the beginning of a relationship.





	Office Hours

She could say she forgot her jacket in the mess hall. Anyway, it’s unseasonably warm for San Francisco, everyone on campus is shedding layers today. If she’s going to see Commander Spock during office hours without it, it’s an accident, not because Gaila told her the turtleneck sweater shows off her rack. God, she’s being ridiculous.

Smoothing down the sleeves, Uhura lifts her hand, hesitates for a fraction of a second and presses the comm button outside the commander’s office.

"Enter."

The door slides open, and she pauses again to see her professor seated at his desk in only his black thermal sweater, his own uniform jacket is neatly hung on a wall hook by the bookcase. Well, she wasn’t expecting that! 

"Commander," she greets.

"Cadet. Please come in."

"Thank you, sir," she sits in the chair opposite his desk. “I'm concerned about my exam, sir."

"Are you." 

It isn't a question. If she didn't know any better, there could have been a note of amusement in his tone.

"Yes sir, I wasn't satisfied with the answer I gave on question 137. I could have elaborated on it further," she says in a rush.

Spock is quite still, glancing up from his padd to look directly at her, finally. She lifts her chin, squeezing her knees together. His gaze is abyssal, dark and fathomless, and yet hot like an active volcano cauldron. It sets her on fire every time it lights on her in his classes. Which she'd like to think is often, but she could be imagining it.

He moves, dextrous fingers thumbing through the settings on the padd and scrolling, then pausing to read.

"Your answer to the question is satisfactory. If the remainder of your responses are this extensive, your exam will earn a score necessary to maintain your position at the top of the class," he says.

"But I wanted to add more about the anapaest tetrameter of the verse and how crucial it is in Orionid love poems," she protests.

Spock's gaze is long and unyielding on her, until he tilts his head and—did he almost smile? "Continue, cadet."

Uhura takes a deep breath, "The stresses are deliberately rhythmic, like a heartbeat, like music. With every third word stressed, it flows like a song, like dance. Which, of course in Orionid culture is so important, since they're such a… a… a sensually driven race." She flushes ferociously, feeling like she's now said too much.

Spock leans back in his chair, yet his eyes are different, so much going on behind them. He blinks slowly, thick dark lashes fanning against his pale skin. His expression would be impassive if it weren't for the unusually relaxed manner in which he is holding himself. Maybe this is how he always is in private. Maybe in his own quarters, he is even more relaxed, all long limbs and body less stiff and more graceful, like a felid. Vulcans did evolve that way, after all. 

His fingers are steepled over his lap, the backs of his hands dusted with the dark hair that disappears into the cuffs of his thermals, knuckles narrow and fine, the nails well manicured. She's thought such dirty things about those fingers.

He lifts his gaze to her once again, "I will take your revisions on the question into consideration when I grade the exam."

"Thank you, sir," she says, and waits a moment once again before gathering her bag and standing. He rises to his feet as well. It's such an antiquated Terran gesture of courtesy that she can't help but smile and duck her head, flustered.

"Cadet Uhura."

His voice makes her stop, though it makes her heart go. "Sir?"

"This is the third time this week that you have attended my office hours with questions of trivial importance," he informs her, then gestures back to the chair she vacated. "Please sit. Unless you have another engagement?"

"Yes, sir. No, sir." She resumes her seat, nervously. It took her ten minutes to come up with a valid excuse to come speak to him this time. Of course he's onto her, he's fucking brilliant.

He glances down at the padd once again. His eyelashes are simply stunning against his very lightly freckled cheekbones. Freckles? Barely there, just the slightest shade of green in difference. Full blooded Vulcans don't have freckles, but damn if they're not cute as hell. 

“Your over-all grade point average is currently 99.7841. Your Xenophysiology marks are a perfect 100.00, as are your scores in Planetary Anthropology and Adaptive Starfleet Communications. Your score in my Federation Literature course is currently 120.21 without factoring in this latest exam, since you have asked for and turned in additional coursework. You are 43.24 points ahead of the next cadet at the Academy majoring in Xenolinguistics, and second to only one other student in your entire class." He sets the padd down on the desk, folding his hands again as he looks at her. "You clearly do not require additional help in your studies."

She ducks her head further, tugging at the hem of her skirt, watching him peripherally through her lashes. He tilts his head again, and there it is, his face looks soft, almost confused. But only for a fleeting moment.

"Are you unwell, cadet?"

"No, I…" she stutters, then looks up at him, because his presence reduces her to nothing but nerves and stark honesty. She smiles to admit it. "I'm embarrassed."

He does look confused then, his eyebrows coming together momentarily. "I do not understand. I complimented your exemplary Academy record and your mannerisms became… odd. Have I given you reason to feel ashamed?"

"No, sir, I'm flattered," she smiles wider and laughs at how stupid she is. "I… I came here because… because I just like to listen to you speak."

He stares at her for long moments, face unreadable again, with his lips lightly parted. His mouth, god, it's so soft and full looking. If Vulcans ever kiss like humans do, it has to be insane with touch telepathy and a mouth like that. He finally asks, slowly and curiously, "My voice pleases you?"

"Yes," she confesses, "Maybe it's because of my studies, sir. The courses you teach. Other species fascinate me. And you are the only Vulcan at the Academy."

He raises an eyebrow. "You are correct; there are no others."

"I like talking to you," she smiles brightly, though she can feel such fire in her cheeks. "You never speak Vulcan, though. Why don't you teach it?"

"Professor Denestra is sufficiently fluent, and an exceptional teacher with tenure. There is no need for me to teach the course, when I may be called to active duty at anytime," he says, and this time he's the one ducking his head. "I rarely have occasion to speak my native language while on Earth. The Academy requires students to be taught in Federation Standard, with exception of the language courses."

"But wouldn’t you like to, outside of class?” she asks. Maybe it's bold, but she continues in Vulcan, " _It is a far more poetic language than Standard, is it not?_ "

He inhales through his nose, and some deep ember in his eyes sets alight. "Your pronunciation is commendable. Humans often struggle with the glottal inflections." He pauses, hot eyes roving her face, then leans forward, and speaks in his own tongue, " _What do you know of Vulcan poetry, cadet?_ "


End file.
